


White

by Dawniebb



Category: Renegades - Marissa Meyer
Genre: Backstory, Other, but still im sorry i had to come up with this evil crap, he also needs more content, the anarchists, trigger warning: Rape mention, winston pratt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawniebb/pseuds/Dawniebb
Summary: "And if he can’t move, he’ll have to stay here.And if he has to stay here…If he has to stay here, eventually everything will be white again. White as the sand in which he wishes to sink. "A one-shot about the Puppeteer's backstory.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. White

**Author's Note:**

> I really thought about uploading this one, and honestly I’m just doing it because maybe there’s someone out there who, like me, wants to see more Winston content. I mean, it’s not the type of content I personally would like to see, but it’s what I have :’)
> 
> Hope you like it.
> 
> This is a one-shot about Winston Pratt’s backstory. It’s not explicit, nor does it contain any explicit scene about *that* but, still, trigger warning: Rape references.
> 
> I’m sorry :’)

In the backyard, there are sheets, which are white and can blind him as a luminous point when the solar rays hit against their fabric.

And just as that solar rays do, his body hits erratically against them; a body white as the flour Mom uses to bake cookies, with white scaled lips as if they were a fish. Or covered in glass. Or covered in snowflakes.

Or maybe sugar or salt.

Could be cornstarch too.

He searches amongst his brain, which has turned itself into a white paste, a way out from the sheet labyrinth, but nothing manages to come out of the lumps, not even when he shakes his head to dissolve them; In front of his face, he sees his pair of hands, white as the ornaments hanging by the Christmas Tree every December, covered in dots that once were light brown, but are now white as the stars up in the sky; Winston is covered in stars, just like ones that obstruct his vision.

And those stars are also white, as the moon that lets them borrow its light. Behind him, he hears the cracking of twigs. So, breathing through his mouth, he throws the sheets to the side and manages to come out of the sheet prison. That’s when he realizes he’s been listening to his own steps, and there’s nobody around following him.

Nobody but him, who has fallen at the moment of finding his way out; His shoe lays a few meters away, hidden between the ghosts that dance to the rhythm of the wind. He doesn’t pick it up, even if that means he’ll have to get his sock dirty. A sock that is as white as polar bear paw but, however, doesn’t work a real polar bear paw, because if it were one, it would’ve given him the strength to run when he needed it the most.

He walks absently, white as the empty nothingness, and a hand that doesn’t belong to him anymore pushes the door, clearing the path to a house that is his’ but yet doesn’t belong to him anymore either, where he finds a type of nothingness as white as the absent state.

He stumbles his way to the bathtub, which comes in a color that makes the water look white. And then, using a white soap, he rubs a body that was stolen from him, which he later dries with a towel.

And that towel is white, but it has blood.

And that blood is a couple of tones redder than his hair, but it doesn’t belong to him either.

And the white nails he sticks into his borrowed arms don’t belong to him either, because they belong to the hands that were taken away from him. A pair of hands attached to the white knuckles that put up their best fight, but still couldn’t.

With a face covered in tears that look like white pearls, he takes the pieces of clothing covered in white spots that don’t belong to him, and then he throws them to the back of the closet that is placed in a room that is safe but lonely, and he sits on a carpet that looks white even if it’s not. He molds himself into a world where everything’s white, and when he looks at his hands they seem useless and white.

And when he feels his body, it’s white and burns like the sun that would stubbornly hit against the sheets he was trapped into; His body feels like a white cocoon, so he fights to free himself out of it because it’s broken. And if it’s broken, it’s not useful anymore. And if it’s not useful, he doesn’t want it anymore.

And if he doesn’t want it anymore, it should just give up and leave.

Because if it left, maybe he would be happy.

But if he wanted to be happy, his body would have to leave, and if it left, then he wouldn’t have a body inside of which he could be happy.

And if he didn’t have a body inside of which he could be happy, then he wouldn’t have a soul anymore.

But maybe thinking about that was no longer worth it. After all, none of those things belonged to him anymore. Because they had been stolen just like his body.

And if his body was not his’, then it was white.

Because white is meaningless…or, at least, not much more meaningful than a used, mutilated and borrowed body.

So Winston stays there, waiting and staring as every piece of him turns white.

Nevertheless, everything’s white except for his memories, which are black and red. Black and red as the spider that touches him with every single one of its paws.

And that makes him feel trapped, because if there’s still a part of his body that hasn’t turned white, then he won’t be able to move.

And if he can’t move, he’ll have to stay here.

And if he has to stay here…

If he has to stay here, eventually everything will be white again. White as the sand in which he wishes to sink.

The sand in which he wishes to sink even though it is the same where he’s already buried alive.


	2. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's a blanket next to him. White, like the lightning outside, which shines and makes the tunnels tremble. Maybe it's Thunderbird... but it could as well just be the sky. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter from this because I needed to fix the previous one. A little piece about how I perceive Winston and Nova's relationship :3
> 
> Mildly based on "Light" by Sleeping at Last.

There's a blanket next to him. White, like the lightning outside, which shines and makes the tunnels tremble. Maybe it's _Thunderbird_... but it could as well just be the sky. 

Because maybe the view from down here it's not that good and they don't get to see what happens in the clouds. Or in anything whatsoever. 

All they can see is dark and black as the night itself. And as the black cats that gallantly walk on the fences bringing bad omens to the superstitious. 

He then starts thinking that the lightning must be white. White as an empty space, which for a second lights up the dark and the lost, going from one place to another, but never staying in the middle. Creating and destructing but never maintaining. 

There's a bump in the blanket, and in that bump, there's a shaking body that trembles as Gatlon does thanks to the lightning, and that body is full of nothing. 

It's just...white. Like him. And the normalization in that phenomena makes the red in his insides get brighter, and then it mixes with the contaminated and resigned liquid pumped by the separate pieces of what's left from his heart. 

The same heart that refused to leave him even when he asked it to and that kept fighting until it stopped feeling and died trapped in the cobwebs from the spider that Winston carries on his back. 

But now, years later, it's whispering. 

And when it whispers, it also speaks. 

And when it speaks, it gets louder. 

And when it gets louder, it feels Winston's irritation and lowers its voice. 

But even if it lowers its voice, it doesn't give up. 

And threads come out of it instead of coming from his fingers, and they tie around the bump in the blanket. 

That's when Winston hears the pounding that comes out of that bump, and as the threads tie together, he hears two hearts communicating through morse code. 

It's a disgusting sound, but he doesn't try to stop it. 

And the knots get tighter and tighter every time, but he doesn't untie them. 

And, suddenly, his body starts functioning again. It's rusty, and it's hurt. 

Then, a magnetic force comes out of his hands and it leads him to the blanket. 

He takes it away. 

And all he sees is blue. 

And black. And red. And blue. 

Very blue. 

And it's beautiful. And it's tiny. And it's sad. And it's defenseless. And it's strange. And it's light. 

And Winston takes it and wraps it between his own body to protect it, while he feels it trembling in his arms. 

While he feels _her_ trembling in his arms. 

And she's beautiful. And she's perfect. And she's just started living. 

And she's delicate, but she's strong. And she's love. And she's absolutely destroyed. 

And she's white, but she's way more than nothing. 

And she lives in the night, but she's powerful. 

"Nobody's going to hurt you, Nova. It's just lightning."

Because Nova herself is lightning, which makes her light. 

The light that, for a second, lights up the nights she's been awake, and the light that makes Winston turn bright yellow. 


End file.
